


Day In, Day Out

by dickviolin



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Smut, boys being eejits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickviolin/pseuds/dickviolin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Nick gets soaking wet, rebuffed, and sucked off, Louis has a complex, and Annie Mac spurs plot action.<br/>I'm uploading this out of sheer loathing. I hate its very sight. It's a burden on my soul. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day In, Day Out

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a non-existent time in which Louis is 19 and Nick is 23 and still on the 10-midnight slot.

It’s not that Nick’s bitter, not by a long shot, but Scott gets his own space, under a roof and everything, right next door to Broadcasting House, while Nick has to plump for a public car park that charges an extortionate rate and is open to the elements. When Nick first moved to London, Annie pointed it out to him- it had been an NHS building, before budget cuts meant it had been sold to redevelopers, who bulldozed it. Then they had lost the contract, and it became a wasteground for three years, used by homeless people and other people the Met liked to keep an eye on. By the time Nick arrived a private car park company had just taken it over; by the time he got the job at Radio 1 it had been turned into a car park. Annie explained all this to him on his first day. She finished the story by telling him it was a typical life cycle of a patch of land in that part of London. Nick thought it rather profound at the time, back when he followed Annie around like the family Airedale. He likes to pretend he’s grown up since then, but she’s still the first person he goes to whenever something goes wrong. Even if it’s just that he’s found himself on the wrong floor and is now wandering around Radio 3, hopelessly lost.

Anyway, it’s been two and a half years since he started at Radio 1, and the list of things that he’s very much not bitter about grows and grows. He’s not bitter about the fact that he’s been plugging away on the 10-midnight show for two and a half years- getting viewing figures unprecedented for a nothing to write home about slot, might he add- but Chris Stark swanned up to Scott at a student party and two days later (or so it seemed) he was on the drivetime slot. He’s not in the least bit bitter about Chris Moyles’ reign over the breakfast show. He’s not bitter about the fact that an over-the-hill homophobe who loves the sound of his own voice has Nick’s dream show, and will have it for the foreseeable future. And he’s definitely not bitter about the parking space. He just thinks that maybe he and Scott could organise a timeshare-type agreement. He could raise it the next time they bump into each other. Scott’s reasonable, Nick thinks, as he pulls in on a drizzly evening in October. Every time he passes the private BBC car park he thinks seriously about nicking Scott’s space in the interim. Tonight is no exception. It’s not as if anyone will mind. Scott goes home at five every evening, as does, Nick suspects, the arsey traffic warden who checks for BBC passes in the windows of everyone’s car. But as always, he decides it isn’t worth the trouble, just in case he’s wrong.

Anyway, in hindsight, it’s far better he has to use the crappy public car park. If he used the BBC one he would never have met Louis Tomlinson. All because he was clumsy enough to press the big green button twice on that drizzly October evening. Two tickets fall out, both reading ‘21:12’. The barrier rises regardless, but Nick reckons he should mention it to someone, just in case he accidentally racks up a £60 fine. He’s been stung like that more times than he cares to remember.  
There is a booth next to the entrance to the car park with a sign that reads ‘attendant’. Nick never really gave it the blindest bit of notice. But now he thinks about it, manning a car park attendant booth must be a shitty job. The poor sod who works in there (Nick pictures a balding, middle-aged man with a paunch and a 5 o’clock shadow) probably isn’t in the best mood. In fact, he almost bins the spare, until he saw that the fine for unpaid tickets is in fact £80. It’s a common myth that radio DJs must make millions. Some of them do- Chris Evans was driving a frigging Bentley the last time Nick checked- but certainly not Nick. He can’t just throw eighty quid around willy-nilly. Even if the attendant is a miserable fucker, it’s far easier to bite the bullet now than to pay later. Nick is nothing if not responsible.

The attendant is so not how Nick pictured him. He looked to be about 19. He’s petite, sure, but in an endearing way. He’s endearingly scruffy too: a hint of a beard, like he’s too cool to shave, and an emo-boy fringe across one eye. He’s so good-looking it looks like he’s been photoshopped into this little hut. There’s a table that looks like it’s been rescued from a primary school, with a bell, though the rest of the hut is far too small for the attendant to be hiding anywhere. This boy (he’s a boy, really, at least in Nick’s world-weary twenty-three year old eyes) wearing ripped skinnies and a faded band t-shirt, and his feet are propped up on the desk. From the sound of it, he’s playing Tetris on his phone.  
“Hiya,” Nick’s standing in the doorway. The boy has knocked him for six. He’s gorgeous.  
The boy silently raises a finger, without looking away from his phone. Nick finds himself, against his better judgement, waiting. For quite a while actually, until the boy has apparently finished that level.  
“Yep?” he says, at last.  
“Hi,” Nick says again, little more testily, “I took two tickets by mistake-”  
“How’d you do that?” the boy demands, interrupting him.  
“I pressed the button twice,” says Nick, more than a little nonplussed. God, this guy’s rude.  
“Right,” he says.  
“Do I need to hand in the spare one?” says Nick. Even if he is rude, he is still cute as all hell.  
“Yeah, give it here.” Northern, Nick notices. Here’s hoping he’s Catholic as well. That’ll please his mother.  
Nick hands him the ticket and the boy throws it in a waste paper basket behind him.  
“That all?” says the boy.  
“For now, at least,” says Nick. He tries a smile. The boy looks just as pissed-off as before.  
Oh well, Nick thinks, as he walks over to Broadcasting House, can’t win them all.

The following night, Nick definitely doesn’t press the button twice on purpose. He just doesn’t make too much of an effort to stop his hand slipping, that’s all. After parking up, he walks up to the attendant office. The boy is still playing Tetris. Nick briefly wonders if he has moved position at all since he last saw him.  
“Hi again,” says Nick. The boy looks up and rolls his eyes.  
“What’s the matter? Can’t parallel park?” he says.  
Nick holds up the spare ticket and gives a winning smile. Finchy told him that his winning smile was what got him that job at Radio 1.  
“Fucking hell,” says the boy.  
Finchy was probably joking. The boy takes his ticket and tosses it behind him. It lands perfectly in the bin. He then turns back to Nick and raises his eyebrows.  
“Anything else?”  
“Nope,” says Nick. He turns and leaves.

The fact that the attendant is astonishingly rude doesn’t put Nick off from ‘accidentally’ taking two tickets every night for the rest of the week. He’s cute, and Nick’s nothing if not persistent.  
The attendant takes a dimmer view of it.  
“Your car better be on fire,” he says on Wednesday when Nick comes in.  
“I think your machine’s broke,” says Nick, holding the spare ticket aloft.  
“They’re not,” says the attendant flatly, “We check them every night.”  
“Well, I definitely only pressed it once.” Nick distinctly hears him whispering ‘bullshit’ as he throws the ticket away.  
On Thursday, he doesn’t even say anything. He leans over the desk and takes the ticket out of Nick’s hand and deliberately turns round to put it in the bin. Then he goes back to Tetris. He doesn’t even ask if Nick wants anything else.  
My car could be on fire, Nick thinks as he walks away.

“Hi,” says Nick. It’s Friday. He’s decided to bite the bullet and ask the attendant out.  
“What do you want now?” says the boy.  
“Listen, I know this might sound a bit forward, but would you like to come for a drink?”  
“No,” says the attendant. Nick’s speechless. He’s been turned down before, sure, but usually with a bit more tact.  
“I- I don’t even know your name,” Nick splutters.  
“It’s Louis. I’m not looking for that right now,” he says. For a moment, Louis’ features soften, and he looks slightly apologetic. “Thanks for asking, though.” Gone is the sneer, and the challenge in his eyes. Nick wants to hug him, to make sure Louis never has reason to make that face again.

“Why you sulking?” Colette sits down on the bar stool opposite Nick.  
“’M not,” he says.  
“Yes you are. You haven’t left the bar all night.” It’s true; the most meaningful human connection he’s made all night has been with the bartender to say ‘same again, please, mate’.  
“Is it a boy?” Nick avoids her gaze and fiddles with a beermat. She sighs loudly. “For Christ’s sake, Nick.”  
“What’s wrong with him?” Matt says, coming over.  
“Boy trouble,” says Colette, before Nick can defend himself. He lets the inevitable lecture wash over him. He’s heard it all before.  
“You gonna be like this all weekend?” Colette says. Nick just takes another sip of his pint. Eventually, they get bored and leave him, at which point he sneaks out and takes a taxi home.

 _What’s his name?_ The text from Scott arrives at eight the following morning. News sure travels fast on the BBC grapevine.  
_Louis_ , Nick begrudgingly replies, _He works in a car park_. There’s a ten minute pause before a text arrives from Annie: _What’s this about you falling for a traffic warden?_. He puts his phone on silent and makes himself some breakfast. He doesn’t know why Louis has put him in this mood. It’s not as if he’s ever had an unrequited crush. There was Andrew in college, for instance, who probably didn’t take too kindly to Nick mooning over him during English lessons. He got over Andrew pretty quickly, though. In fact, it’s never taken him more than 48 hours for him to get over a boy, given the right amount of vodka shots. But Louis has burrowed his way into Nick’s head, made a nest deep inside, and is now refusing to allow Nick to think straight. He can’t even listen to music to distract himself- everything from James Bay to Lunchmoney Lewis reminds him of Louis.  
He spends most of the weekend inside, feeling sorry for himself.

The following Monday evening, after parking up, he dithers in his car for several minutes, looking at the attendant booth. He has no reason to go and see Louis. He’s only taken one ticket, and in any case, Louis has made it quite clear that he’s not interested. It doesn’t stop Nick from staring at the booth for another ten minutes, as if Louis is liable to come out and tell Nick he’s made a mistake, and that they should both ditch work and go for late dinner.

“You still upset about the boy?” Nick chooses to ignore Finchy’s question, preferring to fiddle with a button while the song played.  
“What was his name? Louis?” says Matt, leaning over the desk.  
“Do I have time to get a cuppa?” says Nick.  
“No, this song only lasts two minutes. Are you going to be moody all night?”  
“I’m not moody. I’m fine,” Nick says, trying his best to sound blasé. Matt shrugs.  
“Whatever you say. Right, fade it down.”  
Nick puts his headphones back on and fades down the song.  
“That was Years and Years with ‘Shine’.” Nick hates Years and Years. He hates Finchy. He hates that he doesn’t get a reserved space. He hates that he’s stuck on the late night slot. He hates that cute boys in little huts don’t want to date him. He fades up another song and tries to muster up the will to live.

And of course, his car gets clamped. He’s, what, three inches over the line? And there’s free spaces for rows either side. He’s so frustrated he punches the bonnet of his car, and instantly regrets it. Not only does it hurt, but his hands are numb from the cold, so it hurts twice as much as it should. He curses loudly for a few minutes, which probably helps the pain.  
“Overzealous traffic wardens you’ve got there.” When Nick bursts into the attendant’s booth, Louis is round the other side of the desk and is zipping up his jacket. He freezes, comically, midstride.  
“What?” he says.  
“I’ve been clamped,” says Nick, “Unfairly, might I add. Who do I ring to complain?”  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Louis, going back behind the desk, “I was just about to go home.” He turns back round with an enormous pair of pliers in his hands.  
“Show me where it is, then.”

It’s started raining. Nick is standing next to a man who’s rejected him, in the pouring rain, while said man takes a clamp off his car, after his shift’s finished. Nick’s been more comfortable.  
“Thanks,” says Nick, once the clamp’s off. Louis stands up. His hair is plastered to his head. His jacket was apparently not particularly waterproof. He looks mightily pissed off.  
“Don’t mention it. Park better next time.” With that, he storms off back into the hut.  
Nick puts the radio on full blast as he drives home, as he always does when he’s in a bad mood. He wonders why he’s even bothering with Louis, and, more worryingly, why he can’t seem to stop thinking about him, despite rationally knowing how doomed his stupid crush is.  
But when did Nick ever listen to rationality?

“You know what you need?” Annie is talking to him, probably. He can’t really tell. It’s about three am. He’s been doing shots all night. He’s wasted. Properly, fully wasted.  
“What do I need?” he finds himself asking. Annie comes into focus in front of him. She’s wearing a sort of glittery eyeshadow. It’s very distracting.  
“To get laid. And it ain’t gonna happen here.” It really isn’t- it’s a student night, KCL, or maybe UCL. One of the London ones. Nick tagged along because the only other option was a night in watching Grand Designs, and he’s not that sad. He’s only 23, for Christ’s sake. He needs to get some. But wherever he is, moping around backstage with Annie won’t get him any.  
“You’re right,” he says, standing up. He stumbles over to the door. It’s propped open with a brick, and looks out onto a rain-wet street full of promise.  
“I’m gonna get laid,” he says, to no-one in particular, and steps outside.

The difference is startling. Inside was stuffy, and the sound of pounding house music drowned everything out. Out here, it’s freezing cold, and quiet as a monastery compared to inside. In the distance, an ambulance wails. As Nick staggers down the road, the sound of giggling gangs of women in strappy heels fades in and out. But he’s alone with his thoughts. He dives into a shop for a kebab, then dives back out to be sick, before heading for the first club he sees. He has no idea where he is. He ruefully remembers that he left his phone with Annie for safekeeping.

By the time he gets into the club, the combination of the kebab and the fresh air means he’s sobered up quite a bit. Well, enough to walk and see straight, which will do him just fine. He’s not so cheap as to walk into a club and throw himself at the first boy he sees. He stands at the bar, getting a feel for the place. It’s mainly students (typical) and most of them seem to be from the same place, judging by how many of them seem to know each other. He’s worked himself into a reverie, watching them go by like fish in a tank, so when he gets a drink spilled on him, he’s startled.  
“Sorry, mate.” Nick looks round. Holding a dripping glass of what looks like Amaretto sour aloft is Louis. To his credit, he looks as shocked as Nick.  
“It’s you,” says Louis.  
“Louis,” Nick says. He’s frozen to the spot.  
Louis downs the drink, puts the glass on the bar and grabs Nick by the wrist.  
“C’mere,” he says. Nick is pulled right across the dancefloor to the back of the club. A fluorescent light above him says ‘toilets’.  
Nick has a horrible feeling he knows exactly where this is going.

Louis pushes him into a cubicle and against the wall.  
“This doesn’t mean shit,” he hisses as he unbuckles Nick’s belt. Then he drops to his knees, and starts sucking Nick off.  
“Do you usually spill drinks on men as foreplay?” Nick says. Louis doesn’t answer, just growls around Nick’s cock, which rips a groan from Nick’s throat. Before long, he feels his orgasm approach.  
“Jesus- fuck- Louis-”  
Louis hums again, and that does it. Nick shoots down his throat, Louis swallows, and as quickly as it began, it’s over.  
“This means nothing,” Louis repeats. He storms out of the cubicle and out back into the club. Once he’s tidied his hair up, Nick goes to follow him, to ask what the everloving fuck just happened, but in the intervening period, the capacity of the club appears to have doubled. Louis has been lost to crowd.  
Nick goes home. Annie comes round the next morning with his phone. She doesn’t ask if he got laid.

Nick spends the following week in a daze. The usual routine begins again on Monday- bollocking about during the day, then arriving at work at nine to do some half-arsed prep for the show, then switching on autopilot during the show itself, then driving home. Normally Nick at least stays up with a pot noodle to watch the late-night telly, but by Wednesday he finds himself in bed, ready to drop off by quarter to one.  
It’s not normal, he supposes, to be this affected by a 19 year old with some sort of complex, but after another afternoon of listening to angsty music before dragging himself into work, he allows himself the privilege of the word ‘heartbroken’. To himself, at least. Everyone else would tell him to get over himself, quite rightly.

“Have I done something to piss you off?” says Matt, putting his headphones on the desk at the end of the show.  
“No,” says Nick.  
“It’s just you’ve been a bit short, that’s all. Is something up?”  
“Something up,” Nick repeats. He’s staring at the monitor, watching texts come in on the top of the screen. Colin in Glasgow is listening. He loves ‘Cheerleader’ by OMI.  
“Nothing’s up,” Nick says, eventually, “Just a bit tired.” Matt shrugs. The rest of the show is shit. Nick tries to care.

Of course it’s raining. If his life weren’t enough like a shit romcom, nature has to throw pathetic fallacy his way. He tries to shield himself with his jacket, but that just results in his sleeves getting wet. He’s relieved when he gets to the pay station at the car park; it’s got a roof, albeit one of those cheap-as-chips, cursory effort ones like at bus stops. He’s so focused on getting into his car quickly that he only notices the piece of paper taped to the credit card slot when he tries to put his card in. It reads ‘out of order’ in a biro scrawl, slightly obscured by the rain running down it. Nick’s ready to give up. Tears even spring to his eyes. The hot boy he’s absolutely gone for won’t date him. He’s probably going to be on this shitty slot for the foreseeable future. None of his friends seem to be the least bit sympathetic to his plight. He’s cold. He’s soaked. He’s hungry. He can’t even fucking pay for the shitty car park he has to put up with while Scott fucking Mills gets a reserved space. And he has to go, tail between his legs, to the attendant booth. To the boy who won’t go out with him. To the boy who sucked him off and disappeared. To the boy who probably hates him. He turns round. But jogging across the car park, already drenched, is Louis.  
“Louis?” Nick says, as Louis comes up to him.  
“Don’t even start,” Louis says. He cradles Nick’s face in his hands, stands up on his tiptoes, and kisses him. For a moment, Nick feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. Then Louis pulls away. It can rain all it likes.  
“I don’t even know your name,” says Louis.  
“Nick,” he says, “Nick Grimshaw.”  
“I should probably explain,” says Louis.  
“Oh,” says Nick, suddenly worried again. He has a sudden, surreal, thought that maybe he’s the victim of an elaborate reality show prank.  
“I clamped your car,” says Louis, “I wanted an excuse to talk to you again. But then you came and I chickened out, and I acted like an arsehole so you wouldn’t suspect anything.”  
“I’m a bit more confused about the blowjob, but OK,” says Nick.  
“I saw you, and I thought I’d never see you again, so I grabbed you, and it was stupid and-” He stops abruptly. “Ask me out again.” Louis looks Nick straight in the eye.  
“Would you like to go for a drink?” says Nick.  
“No,” says Louis, “I’d like you to drive me home. The tubes aren’t running and I’m fucked if I’m taking the night bus back to Catford.”

Nick isn’t so sappy as to dedicate a song to his boyfriend on-air. He does, however, wheedle Matt into letting him play ‘If U Seek Amy’, just so he can text Louis ‘ _I’m walking down the aisle to this_ ’. He gets a top hat emoji in return.  
Scott can stick his reserved space.


End file.
